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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28158342">A City and It's Spider</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhWormsNice/pseuds/OhWormsNice'>OhWormsNice</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marvel (Comics), Spider-Man (Comicverse), Spider-Man - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Gen, Gun Violence, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, New York City, One Shot, Spider-Man Interacting with New Yorkers, Spider-man being Spider-man, Sweaters, Vigilantism, What am I doing?, Who let me in here</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 18:00:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,442</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28158342</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhWormsNice/pseuds/OhWormsNice</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes he likes to just sit and watch the city go by. The duties of being Spider-man don’t lend much time to simply stop, so he lets himself have a quiet moment now and again. Well, as quiet as it gets in the ‘city that never sleeps’.</p><p>Glimpses into the life of one Peter Parker, the ups and the downs, and the relationship the residents of his city.<br/> </p><p>tw for abuse, nothing graphic is described, but it is mentioned and its stated that the character has bruises.<br/>tw for gun wound, the wound is not heavily described,but it still happens</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Matt Murdock &amp; Peter Parker, Peter Parker &amp; Claire Temple, Peter Parker &amp; Original Female Character(s), Spider-Man &amp; New York City</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>173</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A City and It's Spider</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/deniigiq/gifts">deniigiq</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crescent_Blues/gifts">cassette (Crescent_Blues)</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I really like the dynamic between superheros and the cities they protect, so I wrote about it. </p><p> </p><p>”so believe in you like i guess I do 'cause for fuck's sake its the least you deserve” - deniigiq<br/>Thank you to the Team Red server on discord who supported me through writing this.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>    Sometimes he likes to just sit and watch the city go by. The duties of being Spider-man don’t lend much time to simply stop, so he lets himself have a quiet moment now and again. Well, as quiet as it gets in the ‘city that never sleeps’. Peter isn’t very high up. Just on a simple apartment building. The spot he has chosen looks over a busy street, and has a nice view of the city if you’re on the roof. He sat with legs dangling over the edge of it, offering an ample view. A plastic grocery bag sat to his right.</p><p>    Below him, the babble of the city—dogs barking, songs playing on radios, and the chatter of millions of people—echoes up. Of all those millions of people, one couple stops to gawk at him. Peter can tell they're tourists. New Yorkers don't give him a second glance anymore. Standing up and doing a backflip for them causes them to clap and cheer. The applause brings a smile to his face, not that they can see it through the mask. The cheers bring a special kind of joy, a simple kind, to him. He dips into a comically low bow and sits down once again.</p><p>     Peter loves New York City, but sometimes it's hard to remember why. As Spider-Man, he’s often seen the worst that the city has to offer; A slow and calculated take over of the city from the inside by a mob boss, a family of six being evicted from their home because they couldn’t afford rent for the new apartments being built , the random mugging turned deadly that got Uncle Ben shot. </p><p>The reason he’s on this particular building walks out onto the roof from the roof access door and sits down next to Peter.</p><p> Julie.</p><p>Julie is seventeen and has bruises in the shape of hands on her arm</p><p> </p><p>She leans her head on to Peter’s shoulder, closes her eyes, and lets out a deep sigh. Peter lets her stay like that for a while. Simply breathing together.</p><p>    “Please tell me there's food in there.” Julie breaks the silence and looks at the plastic bag sitting next to them. Peter smiles and digs around in the sack and pulls out two sandwiches and two lemonades. One of each goes to Julie. She straightens up off of his shoulder and takes them gladly.</p><p>   “I got you one with the spicy mustard you like,” Peter says,  lifting up the mask to take a bite out of his own sandwich. “How did your sleepover with Holly go?” he asks, through a full mouth. Julie looks at him with disgust for talking while eating.</p><p>   “Gross, Spidey, gross,” Julie says, giving him a nasty side-eye that wasn’t without teasing. “The sleepover was completely a bust, and I’m going to never talk to you ever again for convincing me to do that.”  </p><p>Peter startles, his eyes widening before he realizes the sarcasm for what it is.</p><p>     “The sleepover was great and Holly was amazing, don't worry.” She pushes him playfully. For the next couple of hours, they stay like that, just talking to each other, no bruised arms or work deadlines.</p><p>    “No joke, the lady just <em> hands </em> me the baby. Stop laughing, I have no idea what to do with babies.” They tell stories of adventures</p><p>     “So she stands up and looks at me like I’m stupid and like the look of total shock when I pull out the paper will give me enough joy for the rest of the year.” of the mundane </p><p>    “The little boy loses it, yelling ‘Spider-Man, Spider-Man!’ and jumping up and down.” of the joyful</p><p>     “Thanks, Spidey.” She looks out over the city, watching the setting sun gleaming off of the glass giants. Her voice soft, clouds on the wind, her eyes in a far off land. She swings her legs away from the edge and walks back into the building to her brother. Peter lifts himself into a swing with acid on his tongue and lead in his stomach.</p><p>*********</p><p>    Swinging always makes Peter feel better. The drop of his stomach as he falls before shooting out the next line of thread to hurl himself back into the air. The pull of centripetal force as his body swings in a big curve. The air, the rush of being free, of flying. The adrenaline chases through his body, making him feel like a live wire. His toes tingle and the idea of shouting out to the entire city sounds like a great idea.  His shock is grounded when the sky decides to open up.</p><p>   Matt always told Peter he looked like a drowned rat when wet. Currently, he's sure he's doing a wonderful impression of one. Thankfully, dry is only two buildings away. The webs shoot out, hurling him in an arc over an alley. </p><p>Thwip, swing, release. </p><p>     It’s a graceful motion, one baked into his bones. He’s almost home when his web hits a bird, turning it into a poof of feathers. He tumbles down an alley and onto a fire escape, landing hard. The metal groans as it shifts underneath his sudden weight. The rain still pelts down, hard and cold.</p><p>Peter decides to sit there for a moment and hate the world.</p><p>     A light flicks on in the apartment, lighting the window looking out on Peter. Whoever was there could turn him into the cops, but the will to bring himself to care just isn’t a thing right now. The window opens with a creaky hinge and a woman peers down at him before closing the window once more. Yeah, that was fair. He wouldn’t want to deal with a wayward spider vigilante at nine o’clock at night either. </p><p>     To Peter's surprise, the window opens up again just and the rain slows to a drizzle. The woman leans halfway out the window to cover Peter with an umbrella. She gives him the umbrella and a plastic bag that holds a Tupperware. He takes a gander at the container’s contents. Strong Indian spices fill the air. Saliva pools in his mouth. It was simple curry over rice, but the aroma was incredible. He looks down at the container and the back at the woman. His eyebrows raise and he begins to open his mouth when— </p><p>    “You saved my grandmother last week.” Her accent rolled over him warm and rich. Well, he was certainly not going to turn down free food. The heat from the container warmed his hands from the cold rain. The window creaks shut. All that was left was the noise of the dark streets and the pitter-patter of rain.</p><p> *********</p><p>     The city comes alive after the rain. Children splash in puddles. Windows open up to let in the cool morning air. A stark difference to Julie crying, shuttering, hiccuping in his arms. Her fingers clutch the front of his suit as her breath stutters like a stalling car. He strokes her hair, strands smoothing under fingers. Knees dig into his stomach and the front of her teeth are pressed into his shoulder. The sobs are just loud enough to hear. His blood moves in a convection current of helplessness: the boiling anger of not being able to put her brother through a wall rises to his throat and the freezing sorrow of not being able to soothe her meet in his throat, and he finds nothing to say</p><p>    “I’m sorry.” Julie’s quiet apology is a dandelion puff on the wind, light and soft. Despite the assurance that she doesn't need to over and over again, there's always an apology. </p><p>      A lemonade is opened. A sandwich is unwrapped. Slumped over, leaning against him, Julie slowly eats the sandwich and sips on the lemonade. A warm summer breeze visits, drying tears, and leveling tempers. A sharp chime from Julie’s phone breaks the fragile peace. Her brother, a frequent source of sleepless nights, tearing apart both punching bags and his knuckles.</p><p>Then, a series of actions then takes place.</p><p>A surrender. “I have to go.”</p><p>An offer. “I can help.”</p><p>A confession. “I know.”</p><p>A plea. “Please let me help.”</p><p>A lie. “I’ll be fine.”</p><p>And a hug.</p><p> </p><p>*********</p><p>That night, three men and two women walk into the NYPD, all confessing to child abuse or neglect. All with extensive bruising. </p><p>Peter goes to bed with blood on his knuckles.</p><p>*********</p><p>      He had found the painting at the end of the patrol. It was on an easel in an empty plot of land. Scruffy weeds and crabgrass grew around it. Even at night, the summer heat was oppressive. Sweat trailed down the back of his neck. It pooled in his collar bone and made him willing to trade his left hand for a cooler suit. The easel was old, the wood was splintering off.  The lights of the city were enough to see what he was looking at clearly. </p><p>       It's a beautiful painting of him swinging through New York. The detail on the web, each individual twisting thread could be seen,  and the sun glinting off the skyscraper he flew in the painting knocked the wind out of him. At the bottom of the painting, there are three handprints. Two small ones and one larger. “Thank you, Spider-Man” was written three times at the bottom, two in a smaller childish script and the third in delicate cursive. Peter stares at the sky, trying to blink away tears.</p><p>      He swings home, clutching the painting for dear life. No way was he going to lose this by doing something so stupid as dropping it. Peter sees the shot before anything. The flash of a muzzle of a gun. His leg is on fire and he's falling out of the sky. He's falling, he's falling, he's falling, He's going to die, it hurts. What about Aunt May? I’m so sorry Matt, Wade. He’s going to— you have web-shooters. A voice that sounds too much like both Matt and Wade.  Thwip, swing, release. The web hits and sends him soaring. The jolt of catching himself rages against his leg. Landing, that's the first goal.</p><p>      There seems to be just miles of glass skyscrapers. He can tell when he crosses into Hell’s Kitchen. The familiar stench of the neighborhood during summer is a welcome smell. The ratty buildings are comforting. All of those signs mean Matt. The ground comes up to greet him with a rough landing. Possibilities of what the gunshot did to his leg are more than enough to keep him from looking down at it.</p><p>       “Matt, I'm okay, I’m just going to get myself to Claire’s.” He knows Matt can hear him, can hear everything all the time. How does he not go mad? Some would say he already has. He's so hot and sticky. He limps his way to Claire’s, using back alleys and side streets. Bracing against the wall for support. People don't question blood back there, right? Sure. His leg burned and felt like someone was holding it close to an iron, the burning only added to the boiling hot weather already beating down on him. It was so hot, why? Nausea fizzes and froths in his stomach, threatening to boil over. The world is shaking. An earthquake? No. That doesn't make sense. Oh, he’s the one shaking.</p><p>Hands are on him, lifting him. Claire, she's talking to him. She's saying something. Matt? Apartment? No, he needs to get to her apartment.</p><p>A blast of cold air hits him. A fan, Claire had a really nice fan in her living room. He liked that fan.</p><p> </p><p>Voices, chemicals, heat, so much copper.</p><p>
  <em> Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name. </em>
</p><p>It hurts, May, it hurts</p><p>
  <em> Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. </em>
</p><p>“I’m right here Claire, my leg is bleeding, I can’t move.”</p><p>
  <em> Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our debts…  </em>
</p><p>The painting, where is the painting? Hold on to what?</p><p>
  <em> …as we also have forgiven our debtors. </em>
</p><p>“Ben, <b>please</b>, make it stop. make it stop.”</p><p>
  <em> And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>    He can't move his leg when he comes to. He's also much cooler than when he was ten minutes ago. His mask had been removed and the fan overhead blasted cool hair onto him. Claire's laying on the floor with a damp towel over her eyes. He can feel one over his own forehead.</p><p>    “Are you okay Claire?” Wow, okay that hurt. Claire sits up like an 80-year-old lawnmower who chain-smokes just announced its presence in her living room, which it did because that's what Peter’s voice sounds like.</p><p>    “You got shot and you're asking if I’m okay. <em> Vigilantes. </em>” Her voice reminds him of his English 100 professor, who always seemed to be exacerbated about something— usually him.</p><p>    “Any pain, and stop moving, I swear to—,”</p><p>No, where was the painting? That painting was far too nice to lose.</p><p>    “Don’t worry It's in the kitchen,”</p><p>Thank God.</p><p>    “Speaking of God, I didn’t know you were religious,” she said.</p><p>    “I'm not, I went to church with Matt once,” Peter said.</p><p>    “Well, you were saying The Lord's Prayer when I was getting the bullet out.</p><p>He was?</p><p>     “Matt would always say it when he had to push through pain. I guess I picked it up from him.” Peter now had the courage to look down at his gauze wrapped leg.</p><p>     Peter looked around in the kitchen for the painting the best he could from the couch. The canvas was sat on the small kitchen table.  Blood had splashed on it, large brown stains now marred the painting. His jaw clenched until it hurt. His lungs tightened and he wanted to hit something. Hit whoever shot him and made him get blood on his gift.</p><p>“Oh no, you are letting Matt hunt down whoever shot you. You're not doing anything other than laying there and resting,” she said.</p><p>“I don’t need Matt to clean up my messes.”</p><p>Claire rolled her eyes as she began to clean up the medical mess, putting the bloodied bandages and gauze in a paper bag to be incinerated.</p><p>“Well, tough. You need rest.” She closed up her massive first aid kit and placed it back in its place. Peter knew when he was fighting a losing battle. You would think that he would learn after all these years but apparently not. The clock on the wall read three in the morning. Guilt squeezed his stomach like a coil. All he could see was an old sheet now covering his face.</p><p>“Go to sleep, Peter,”</p><p>*********</p><p>       Julie paced on the rooftop with her short crop of brown hair threaded through her fingers. She mutters to herself while Peter sits with her computer in his lap. The weather has cooled off with fall replacing summer. The leaves in Central Park change color and litter the ground. Pumpkin spice everything hits the shelves along with Christmas decorations. The arrival of fall met college application time. The computer that was on Peter’s lap showed an application for a local university. She would be a great fit with her love for writing and the fact that the school's newspaper was still standing thanks to her. Together they had toured the campus with her walking around and him slinking around from the shadows. Every now and then, he would give her a thumbs up from the side of a building to ease the worry that radiates off her.</p><p>       However, Julie had no idea how to actually apply to a college. High school could only help her so much, and in the end, it was a complicated process when you don't know what to do. Aunt May and Matt had helped him with his own application.</p><p>     “Calm down. I said I would help you right? I've done this before,” Peter said. She looked at him with pleading eyes. The wings of her eyeliner were starting to run because of the welling tears in the corner of her eyes. She sat down crossed legged with her knee touching his as they looked over the application together.</p><p>     Together, they had to choose her major—journalism—and get her transcript from her school counselor. Peter made a mental note of getting her in touch with Karren. Karren would lose her mind over Julie. Her SAT scores were good, and she had a decent chance of getting in. They stay there on that rooftop for a while hunched over her computer, planning the future, filling out scholarship forms and student loan applications to pave the way to a greener pasture.</p><p>    “On my first day, you’ll walk me to the bus at least, right?” she asked.</p><p>Nerves played with the confidence Peter had slowly gotten her to gain back. The sure-fire acceptance meant nothing in the face of finally leaving, of being free. It caused the familiar heat in his veins to return. All it would take is one quick punch to the nose and he wouldn’t be a problem anymore.</p><p>    “Of course.” He wouldn’t leave for a while, not while she still needed him. Not until she could stand on her own. She smiled at him and the bags under her eyes seemed a little less heavy. The weight that sat on Peter's chest started to lessen.</p><p>     Together they sat on that rooftop and worked on a college admissions letter. As the sun dipped behind the buildings, sending rays of light shining through, the blue light of the laptop shined on their faces. The click-clacking of keys on the keyboard joins the chitter of their brainstorming. The stars soon appear overhead, the constellations of Pegasus and Draco watching over them as they work. Julie’s smiling at the screen that holds the beginning of an outline. The step was small, but any step forward was worth taking. Peter’s spine cracked like pop-rock as he straightened up. Julie looked at him with disgust at the noises that dare to leave his body.</p><p>   “I know you're smiling, you gross jerk.” Her eyes narrowed at him as she poked his side. Standing, he ruffled her hair and leaped off the side of the building leaving Julie’s middle finger in the distance. He sleeps a little easier that night.</p><p>*********</p><p>    Winter steamed rolled its way over fall in the form of a snowstorm. The storm had knocked out power for several neighborhoods.  The whole building was blocked from leaving from the snow piling up. Peter is swinging across the city delivering food and blankets to homes without heat or electricity. His fingers stung from the cold and freezing wind ripped through his suit straight to his core. His free arm was loaded up with blankets and other necessities. He lands on a balcony. Ice had frozen the door shut, it didn’t budge. A swift kick fixed his problem.</p><p>   “I have blankets and food, the ice around the door is gone,”</p><p>     An old man slowly opened the door. A heavy-looking quilt was wrapped around his shoulders. His breath huffed out in short bursts. A stream of unfamiliar words streamed out of his mouth. It was very bouncy sounding. He was shaking his hand a lot so it was maybe supposed to be a sort of thank you. The man takes the blankets and goes back into his apartment. Sounds of cheering could be heard from inside.</p><p> Once back in the air, he didn’t stop if he could help it. Simply throwing the blankets and care packages onto balconies or porch steps with a swift knock on the door.  Peter swung up and over, down and around, navigating the city with expert ease. A group of volunteers had joined together to gather supplies for people without power and were set up in a parking garage closest to the section of the city that was out of power. The care packages had protein bars plus other pre-packaged foods, blankets, bottles of water along with other goodies.</p><p>    The familiar red hats of the volunteers came into view. The few people who had braved the storm to pick up the packages personally milled about. All of them are bundled up in heavy snow jackets to protect against the freezing cold. He wanted to grumble at them for having the audacity to be warm. His fingers and toes have moved from stinging to burning from the winter onslaught. The adrenaline stampeding through his system is doing little against the cold. He had to keep on moving.</p><p>If he stopped he would freeze.</p><p>If he stopped some of these people wouldn’t get the blankets and supplies they needed and the damage would be irreparable.</p><p>If he stopped he was going to steal someone's coat.</p><p>    “Spider-Man, wait.” The voice was from a man wrapped up in a knitted scarf. “My grandma wanted you to have this.” He hands him a canvas bag. It's beaten up and faded. The sweater inside however looked new, large, and red with his spider in the center.</p><p>”She was worried about you with how you swing around all over the place during winter with no coat, so she knitted you a sweater.”</p><p>Someone had knitted him a sweater</p><p>A Grandma had knitted him a sweater</p><p>A grandma sweater.</p><p>No, he wasn’t about to cry, screw you.</p><p>      The sweater was warm and felt like rainbows and Aunt may’s hugs. The sleeves brushed the tip of his fingers, wrapping them in soft material. The newfound warmth made his hands hurt as they thawed out. He was finally warm. Clenching and unclenching helped the blood to warm up and the joints to loosen up. Another bag is shoved in his hand. A large woman wrapped up in ski gear tells him the houses he’s supposed to go to. </p><p>He's off like a shot in the night to help his city weather this storm, proudly sporting his new sweater.</p><p>   *********</p><p>     Spring beat up winter with a flurry of new life. Green buds popped up all over the trees. The air is thick with spring showers. Sunny spring gave way to a sweltering summer. Light jackets and capris turned into shorts and tank tops.</p><p>    “I don't understand how you aren’t dying in that suit,” Julie says. Most would be surprised or even call the cops at the sight of a vigilante, but not New York. They have stranger things in the sewer to worry about. </p><p>Julie’s hands adjust the trap of her duffel bag again for the third time in the last twenty minutes.</p><p>   “Who says I’m not,” Peter replies.</p><p>    Sweat pooled in uncomfortable places. It felt like sand had replaced his saliva in a mixture of miserable. The conversation is strangled to a stop by nerves. Peter should be happy, this is her first day of college.</p><p>The bus makes its arrival with a screaming halt. It's a loud and awful thing. Like a siren signaling disaster.  Several actions take place when the bus doors open.</p><p>A surrender: </p><p>“I’ll be ok.” Julie’s voice is soft as she stares straight into the bus. As the line of people streams ahead of her.</p><p>An offer:</p><p> “I can come with you.” Fear roils in Peter’s gut. She would be all on her own, he couldn’t be there all the time to look out for her. Who knows what could happen?</p><p>A confession:</p><p> “I’ll be okay.” A smile is a small addition to her expression. Her face is an emotion Peter can’t quite place. Her hand clenches the trap of her duffel bag turning her knuckles white. </p><p>A plea:</p><p> “Are you sure?” Watching her stare at the bus leaves a black taste in his mouth. His Spidey-senses tingle in the back of his throat.</p><p>A lie:</p><p> “This is just another bus ride.” Julie climbs up the steps of the bus with a soft hesitance. Footsteps like sugar floss. The clanging of metal as she gets into the bus seems to be keeping time with his pounding heart.</p><p>And a hug.</p><p>    She throws her bags into a seat and dances her way against the line of people and out of the bus. At full speed, she barrels into Peter. He stands solid and firm as a rock holds against the current of a stream. She holds on as if she lets go he would be swept away like spider silk. Fingers clutching his suit. Peter wraps his arms round her as well. He holds her close and squeezes tight. Abruptly, she lets go and faces him.</p><p>    “Thank you.” Her eyes shine against the morning sun. Her face is split by a smile that finally reaches her ears. The bus driver yells at her, and just like that, she’s waving from her seat window as the vehicle moves down the street. She was going to be okay. </p><p> </p><p>    Peter sits on Julie’s old apartment building as the New York nightlife bustles below. A bottle of lemonade and a sandwich sits on one side. On his other side, daredevil. They sat in silence as Peter ate.</p><p>   “I know she asked me to leave her brother alone but he could still hurt her. All it would take is one good hit to the jaw. He's an actual twig.” </p><p>   “If you keep worrying like that, you’re going to give yourself an ulcer.” Matt’s voice is rough and gravely like it always is. It’s a comforting sound that sands away the rough block of worry in his chest.</p><p>“I’m not worried.” Peter knows lying to Matt was a lost cause, but at least he could lie to himself. </p><p>    “Right, you’re eating your favorite comfort meal because you’re completely calm.” Whenever May and Peter would go out for the day, they would always get lemonade and sandwiches from the local bodega for lunch. It was tied to a lot of happy memories. He gave Matt the best glare he could from beneath the mask.</p><p>    “You’ve come a long way from the kid that broke into my apartment and tried to steal my shoes. all you can for now has been done.”  </p><p>Peter takes a deep breath and sighs it out. Focusing on the what-ifs will drown him, and he has to keep moving forward. Always forward.</p><p>    “He's never going to get near her, not if I can help it,” Peter looked out over the city he vowed to protect.</p><p>         Peter loves New York City, but sometimes it's hard to remember why. It would be painless to just let himself get swallowed up. To give into the dirt and grime of the city and be buried, but he keeps fighting for people like Julie who need him. If he can save one person, it's worth it.</p><p>     </p>
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